It gets tiresome, doesn't it? Even the most devoted fan will fail to learn every one of the multitudinous bands borne by inbreeding under the indie rock family tree. Yet many of us still try: music fans are, by definition, obsessive. But why do we bother? Every new band is more deformed than the last-- the eyes drift farther apart, tongues swell, hairlines recede, the sperm and ovaries fail. Sure, one might hear a band on occasion that's greater than any of the members' other bands, but it's extremely rare-- an anomaly.

Pele don't show any outward signs of the genetic mutation caused by inbreeding, but they are, in a way, yet another collaborative project by indie rockers from other treelimbs. Guitarist Chris Rosenau established himself as an engineer for Vermont (he also plays with them), Camden, the Promise Ring, and others. Bassist Matt Tenneseen is also in Paris, Texas. And then there's the obligatory third member who doesn't seem to be attached to any other bands: drummer Jon Mueller.

But Pele are certainly a band in their own right: this is their fourth album so far, and they even tour together, albeit lumped with bands such as Don Caballero, Burning Airlines and the Promise Ring. Listing these ties to other bands is pointless, of course (even if it does serve to satiate those seeking to increase their encyclopedic knowledge of the genre); for Pele share little, musically speaking, with any of the aforementioned bands.

So what do they sound like, dammit? An instrumental American Football? Perhaps. Tortoise with fewer instruments and less ambition? Not really. Pele's sound is instead best illustrated with a brief story of inconsistent truthfulness:

Three friends, just out of college, settle into a Toyota 4Runner and drive out west. In Ohio, on the third or fourth day-- no one's counting-- they take a random exit to alter their route. The sun sets as they approach a baseball diamond where middle-aged men with bellies and beer play softball. Scotty, Nicky and Danny approach the fence, silent, watchful. The ballplayers on the bench look over at them, but don't say anything, not even as they get up and approach the three weary college grads.

Do they turn and run, take the beating, or... take the Pabst Blue Ribbons the men are now offering them? No one talks, just drinks. Birdsong, the thump of the ball, the dull patter of feet around the bases-- these are the only sounds. The game ends, whereupon hands are shook, caps tipped. The two groups walk in opposite directions, but with a shared experience based on mutual respect. Later, in the car, the sun just over the horizon, Scotty, Nicky and Danny smile, but don't look at each other. Each knows the other two are smiling as well.

That story, that's Pele-- in two different ways. First, the content: a warm feeling, the tempo rising and falling no more than a car driving through Ohio's wheatfields, delivering unspoken half-truths. Second, the delivery: pleasant, maybe even genuinely enjoyable as you read it, but probably something you'll neither remember tomorrow morning nor reread for the purpose of remembering.

-Ryan Kearney